


you in viewfinder

by eden (scifis)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentioned SEVENTEEN Ensemble, Photography AU, Vague Description of Feelings, bit of a character study, model!joshua, photographer!woozi, svt running an indie magazine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24803548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifis/pseuds/eden
Summary: Jihoon looks at him through the lenses — the agonizing piercings on his ears, the painful rising of his cheekbones, the excruciating shape of his lips — and wonders about how, in the grand scheme of things, Jisoo became the person his focus always ends up on.
Relationships: Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	you in viewfinder

**Author's Note:**

> heavily inspired by jihoon with a camera, joshua in a jeep, and snapshoot lyrics. 
> 
> i haven’t slept in way too many hours, sorry for any mistakes. hope u enjoy!

Jeonghan looks at him like he’s a genius. He can hear the clock on the wall near him ticking, incessant, a string of _here, there, here, there_ he has no patience to listen to. Objectively, Jihoon knows he’s done a pretty good job with the most recent shoot. Emotionally he feels like eating gravel.

In Jeonghan’s table, two large prints of a single picture: blue hair, all-white clothes, back arched like a bow. His lips are parted and his eyes are closed, — there is no emotion in them — but the still image of Joshua laying in fake snow brings chills to Jihoon’s spine. The cover for _Nota_ ’s winter edition.

“These are incredible, Lee.” Jeonghan smiles like the sun would, if it could smile. Warm and inviting and slow in a way it makes Jihoon melt. The air comes back to him in flashes. “You never fail me, do you?”

(He sighs. It’s hard to work with perfectionists surrounding him, but having total control of things makes it even harder. Joshua listens to everything he says, doesn’t doubt a single word, is kind and patient and everything Jihoon is not. The older is still new at the whole being-a-model thing — Jihoon wishes Jeonghan had picked Chan, or any other photographer, really, for this.

They’re practically alone in the studio, a playlist of soft songs the only sound surrounding them. Seokmin left after spending hours on Joshua’s makeup, never satisfied with his own work. There are blues and whites and greys Jihoon can’t understand adorning the face of the man on the ground. Snowflakes, maybe. Ice. The rain.

“Can you lay down for me?”

“Yes, sure. Like this?”

“Yeah. Just. Uhm,” Jihoon breathes in, out. Flickers in existence. “Close your eyes. Pretend you’re cold. Or dead. Pretend that you’re dead.”)

Jihoon comes back to the office. “I would hope not, boss. It’s my job not to.”

  
Three things in life Jihoon dislikes with a passion, because his mom had taught him ever since he was little hate is a strong word: extremely loud noises, having a notebook so old it doesn’t allow him to edit well the pictures he takes, and Hong Joshua. Not exactly in that particular order. 

Joshua stares at him, a frozen image, his body captured mid-stretch by Jihoon’s camera in the last photoshoot they had, and he stares back, adding the final touches to the picture. He’s not sure which brand it is for, but it’s one of good ones — Myungho had put the man in a leather jacket and shoved fake piercings at him, eyebrow, anti-eyebrow, ears, Seokmin using so much black eyeshadow on him his eyes seem captivating in a way that Jihoon is sure will make people take a closer look. Joshua, this he can admit, is a good-looking guy.

 _SZA_ plays quietly from the speakers in his phone while he works, Jihoon doesn’t have a headache yet, and his coffee is stale. He sighs. It’s late, it’s so late, the moon looks big and he wants to call Jeonghan or Chan and tell them he needs their opinion when he knows the pictures and the editing are both fine. He wants to hear someone’s voice, make sure he’s not the only person in the world, make sure life exists outside his tiny apartment in Seoul.

The coffee, stale, tastes exactly like Jihoon feels. He can’t put words to it because they don’t exist, but the feeling is the same. He saves the pictures, looks at Joshua in the screen for a last time before closing the notebook, goes to bed without brushing his teeth. He wonders if tea would have been a better option.

(“You’re, like, the only person I know who drinks that much coffee, boss.” Chan orders something extra sweet. He doesn’t look like the type to have a sweet tooth, but he does. Jihoon is used to him by now. Fits right.

“I’m the only person you know, period, Chan.” But he is smiling. They both are. It’s lunch time, and they should be eating something because Jeonghan will chop both of their heads off if they come back on an empty stomach but the coffee shop is cheap, good enough, and only two blocks away from the small studio where Jihoon needs to call Jeonghan boss, too, so they go there anyways. “If it wasn’t for me you’d still have to write amateur on your resumes for all those odd jobs. Be nice.”

They don’t sit because there are no tables, Jihoon’s iced americano has probably one too many shots of espresso in it, and Chan has a cute giggle. These are all facts that he registers while the sun greets them as they exit the little shop, things that make his stomach flip in happy little cartwheels. A good day, a good friend, someone bumping into him, hot liquid burning his skin, staining his shirt, ruining one of his favorite jackets?

“Did you just spill strawberry tea on me? Who drinks that?”

The guy doesn’t look intimidated. Why doesn’t he look intimidated. “I’m so, so sorry. And it’s–” Why is there a pause. There should be no pause. 

“It’s hibiscus, actually. I don’t like strawberry.”)

  
Junhwi is always easy to work with. He loves the job, being in front of the cameras and in the center of their attention. He knows his angles, which makes Jihoon’s job easier, knows a lot of poses, which helps even more, and can pull every imaginable facial expression off as if he was the inventor of sentiments. Jihoon sees him as a bit of an overgrown child. 

Their studio is modest. A little on the small side for a magazine, a little on the big side for an independent one. Jihoon still doesn’t know how Jeonghan and Mingyu did it, continue to do it, will probably still be doing it for a long time. He imagines having a lot of friends helps — knows that, actually; was one of the founding members of _Nota_. Thinks they should work on a better name.

Junhwi smiles when he says they can take a five minute break and goes straight for the snack table where Mingyu leaves them simple sandwiches, juice, like they’re kids, and coffee. Jihoon turns to the computer besides him where the pictures he just took are being shown — he sees green, yellow, pink, beige. 

It could be spring, but Jihoon wouldn’t know because he never keeps track. Seasons are confusing like people who have a regular sleep schedule and that one single French class he took as an elective in high school.

From the floor above them, — he’s grateful they have a three story studio building for the magazine, or else there would be lots of complaints about the noise — he can hear Seokmin yelling something about _ruining_ and _makeup_ , like he’s a mind reader. A cryptic. Junhwi looks up with bread crumbs on his lips, smiles at Jihoon, and goes out to find him. Sometimes, instead of an overgrown child, Junhwi resembles a very friendly cat. Jihoon is a dog person, but the other man is nice enough.

“I thought you weren’t working today, Jihoon.” Soonyoung’s voice finds his ears. They’re friends, kinda. Soonyoung has a column where he talks about diversity in dance, in arts, in whatever he’s interested in for the week. Jihoon likes him enough to pretend he is listening when he opens his mouth, which is more than he does for most people, so they get along pretty well. “How are the pictures turning out?”

“They’re pretty good. Jun’s good.” He scrolls a bit more, deletes one or two pictures he’s not satisfied with. Soonyoung’s hair is red and it fits with the summer theme Jeonghan has been planning for a few weeks already. Jihoon itches to ask for the other man to model for him against the sun, to make his hair look like real fire, like he burns. “We’re good. And what about you, huh? What are you doing here?” 

“Not much. I just wanted to ask about this article I’m writing, Mingyu wants it for next week.” He gets a glass of strawberry juice from the table next to them, because he’s Soonyoung, because he’s obnoxious and childish and actually prefers strawberry juice instead of coffee. Jihoon shakes his head — knows people who would prefer grape, or orange, or apple. Strawberry juice fills his lungs, but he listens to Soonyoung still. “It’s about the opposite of puppy love, but I’m not sure if I should call it puppy hate.”

Faintly, at the back of his mind, Jihoon remembers hibiscus tea and how bad it tastes. Soonyoung can’t read minds, keeps talking once again, never stops, never stops; “You know, like, when you hate someone, but you’re not sure why?”

“I think people usually have good reasons for when they dislike someone, Soonyoung. Show me your article when you’re done with it.”

(He cannot remember who gave him the vodka he’s been drinking nonstop. Cannot remember who keeps giving him drinks. They’re all his coworkers. His friends. Mingyu? Maybe Myungho. Jihoon knows he’s far from sober and doesn’t really feel bad about it — it’s a Saturday, Jeonghan and Seokmin’s apartment looks more lived in that his has ever looked, for once he feels like he belongs somewhere and he’s happy. 

These are his people — Myungho rapping in Mandarin in the middle of the living room, still sober but his audience looking as drunk as they can get: Vernon and Wonwoo, bopping their heads as if they understand the words he’s saying with limbs tangled in the couch, a single being. They probably are, at this point. Jihoon doesn’t know. Junhwi slurs in his speech as Mingyu tries to talk to him about work, not getting anywhere. 

Seungkwan plays cards very well, can win every single game with his eyes closed, but Seuncheol and Chan still try to beat him at it. There’s music coming from somewhere. Jihoon knows Soonyoung is supposed to be the DJ for the night but doesn’t really register that fact until the chorus to SHINee’s _Your Name_ hits his ears — not a party song at all, but they are drunk and Soonyoung only has a few songs that aren’t _SHINee_ in his playlist. Makes sense.

Joshua is there, too. He always kind of is. An afterthought, most of the time. Usually Jihoon doesn’t acknowledge him much after saying hi, but Joshua is staring with a smile on his lips and a cup of beer in his hands like he’s in high school trying to impress someone. He looks hot, _is_ hot, and Jihoon has to look away before it starts to get weird.

Jihoon has this thing: whenever he gets nervous, the sounds around him turn into a buzz until it gets almost overwhelming. He can still hear _SHINee_ ’s Minho from the speakers, can still hear Seungcheol’s loud complaints about losing to Seungkwan for the third time in a row, can still hear Jeonghan yelling at them to _be more quiet_ from the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, the vodka coming to his lips and burning down his throat again. 

“Hey, Jihoon. I didn’t expect you to come tonight.” 

His ears start to ring.)

Work shoves him into a car with Minghao, Seokmin, Seungkwan and Jisoo and makes him drive them to a beach somewhere. Work is called Jeonghan, who he still saves as _Boss_ in his contacts even after six years of friendship. An inside joke. Jihoon kinda wishes he’d applied to the art director position, too. 

The other four fight for the aux for a few miles, and then it’s silent. The man besides him isn’t a photographer, not theirs anyway, but has a camera around his neck. Eyes closed, he hums the words to Ariana Grande’s _needy_. He’s looking out, head facing the sun. It’s a pretty view — the one outside. Jihoon forces himself to stare at the road instead.

“Dino and the others are already there.” Seungkwan says from the backseat. His makeup makes him look like a fairy, even if Jihoon is not looking at his face. Seokmin made sure to add so much glitter Jihoon is scared it’s gonna make the backseat of his car look like a disco. He finds he doesn’t really mind. Seungkwan’s lips are covered with a clear gloss, lipstick thing — he’d pouted, once he lost the fight over the aux. It made Jihoon feel like eating sand.

“Why do you call him Dino, Seungkwan?” Jisoo asks from the passenger seat. He’s drinking iced tea, not hibiscus, something sweet. It calms him down, he says. Jihoon thinks his hair looked prettier when it was light brown and not pink. “I never really got that.”

The conversation gets lost as they arrive at the beach — Hansol and Wonwoo, when they’re not writing, usually help with the lights. Junhui is wearing a see-through shirt, Chan looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and the only person who doesn’t really need to be there is Mingyu, but he is anyways. 

“Seungkwan first. Jeonghan wants him to be our cover this time. Jihoon, you go. Chan will drool too much if I make him do this.” Is what he says. Assistant art director. He is tall and broad and Jihoon wants to punch him for getting to spend so much time with his best friend, Boss, Jeonghan, but instead he yells a _yes, sir_ and waits for Seokmin to finish touching up Seungkwan’s makeup.

The camera setting is something he always struggles with, no matter how many times he’s done it before. It takes a while to figure out what looks best. He should’ve done this in advance.

“Here, take a sip. You look like you need it.” There’s a frown on his face and he’s not even looking, but he can recognize that voice. A plastic cup with a coffee shop logo is shoved his way.

“Not hibiscus this time?” Jihoon bites. “Or, I don’t know, something crazy like tomato tea?”

The man is smiling, natural. His hair is pink and the sun shines above them and something like affection flashes through Jihoon’s brain for a second. 

Jisoo shakes his head. “No. This time I’m offering you peach.”

(The lights paint him funny — neon blue, green, red. He’s wearing a black skirt and his eyes are covered in glitter, lips looking almost the same.

“I want you to make him look unreal, Jihoon.” Jeonghan had said. As if it was simple. As if it was easy.

Jihoon sits on the ground, an hour later. He can’t get this right, keeps messing up the angles, raises his voice a bit when he doesn’t even need to, not when Joshua is kind and patient and understanding and everything he is not, even when he’s only just starting to find his balance, even when he’s new at the whole being-a-model thing.

“We should take a break,” Jihoon mumbles. He’s mad at himself. Wants the pictures to turn out better than the last ones, as he always does. “Maybe ten minutes.”

He hears more than sees Joshua sighing; Jihoon’s not looking at him and won’t. Refuses to. There’s a game in there somewhere, between the sweet smiles and the playful, one-sided banter. Jihoon really dislikes losing.

“Jihoon.”

“Joshua.” 

There’s this: a pull, and then Jihoon looks up. Joshua has his eyebrows tight together, frowning, distaste written all over his features. As a photographer, he admires how expressive the model’s face is. As Jihoon, well. He admires.

“That’s my English name.”

There’s this: Joshua gets up, glitter and an unknown tenderness, sits besides him on the floor and just stays there. Tilts his head to catch Jihoon’s eyes.

“I thought I would be the one getting uncomfortable doing this, but I think I was wrong. If it’s about the skirt, I’m sure we can ask Minghao to–”

There’s Joshua’s mouth curving around the vowels, tightening the lace in Jihoon’s stomach. It’s not his name but he wishes it was. Sounds real, authentic. Something clicks and he understands.

“I’m just frustrated.” Jihoon says. It’s not enough, not even close to what he wants to say, stifling against his ribcage, bringing him down an imaginary staircase to his death.

There’s the man looking at him, doubt, discomfort flashing through his eyes. Jihoon wishes he could pull out his camera without it being weird, right now.

There’s this: his heart, still, quiet. Falling into place. Everything and nothing at once, a living creature that wants to eat him from the inside out. He crosses the barrier, walks the tightrope all the way to the other side, meets glitter and tenderness there.

“It’s not the skirt, Jisoo. You look beautiful.”)

The magazine started as a school project — take pictures, write articles, create something out of thin air. Their teachers hadn’t said they couldn’t write about their own experiences, so they did. Got a 55/100. “For being gay,” Jeonghan had said. Jihoon had agreed with him, back then, the two of them and Seungcheol, right now, getting rejected by yet another publisher. 

“We’ll just have to keep doing things ourselves, won’t we?” Seungcheol says more than asks; he knows, they know. It’s not necessarily a bad thing — they have freedom, more than a few faithful readers, Jeonghan’s money. They can keep going for as long as they want to.

“It’s exhausting.” Jihoon says. He looks at Mingyu, young, full of life, already working so hard by their side like he was there from the beginning. It doesn’t matter that he wasn’t, Jihoon knows he’s more capable than half of the people he’s met in all his life. He turns to Jeonghan. Always.

“See you tomorrow, then?” The blonde man asks. His eyes shine with certainty. Jihoon would lay his life down for any of these people — for their writers, for their staff. For the other twelve of them. His friends.

“Get Chan to bring me my coffee if he gets here earlier than me.” He answers. 

Jisoo is waiting for him downstairs, playing a game on his phone. He is gentle even in the way he swears, whispers curse words under his breath as the game and not his skills make him lose once again.

Jihoon takes his phone out of his back pocket — there’s no click, Jisoo doesn’t even notice he’s there, as he takes one, two, three pictures. Jisoo’s hair is black now. His earrings look pretty dangling from his ears, and his tongue peeks out of his lips in concentration. A photoshoot Jihoon keeps to himself in his phone’s gallery, not sharing with any magazines, theirs or not.

“About that date,” he says, startling Jisoo. There are stars somewhere behind his eyes. “Does the offer still stand?”

(“I want to take you out, sometime,” Jisoo says. His eyes are closed and his head rests against the window, serene. He spills his mind as if it was easy. Doesn’t think about it too much. The moon greets him. “Not takeaway in your car after work. A real date.”

He takes a peek at Jihoon, only one eye squinted open. Jihoon imagines he can see how red his cheeks are — he feels them, hot, a burden he carries proudly now. “I think takeaway in my car after work is fine.”

“Of course you do.”

“I kinda want you to kiss me right now.”

Jisoo smiles. His teeth are perfect squares, blinding, his eyes reflect the moon. Jihoon wonders if romance has been dead for a long time and he’s only bringing it back to life now, like this, kissing Jisoo in the backseat of his Jeep, smiling back against his mouth, carding his fingers through recently-bleached hair.

He wonders if it’s okay to feel like this, to feel so much it spills through the cracks in his body, through his every pore, as if he’s screaming to the world “I stick around Hong Jisoo not only because he is a good kisser (but because he is simply good, always good)!”

“One day, when you’re comfortable enough, I want you to ask me out. Properly. Call it a date and everything.”

“You’re okay with waiting for a while?”

Jisoo’s eyes say yes, I am.)

Wonwoo writes an article on youth and it goes viral in only three days, his words relatable and simple, cutthroat, deep as he is. They’re signing deals left and right, sticking as close together as possible, scared the industry is going to ruin them when they know it’s impossible for it to.

Chan is perched on his shoulder. “You should’ve seen him, he looked so good, boss.” And Jihoon is tired of telling him to not call him that so he lets it happen. Seungkwan, again. “He even had a flower crown on! A flower crown!”

“I think you should talk to him about how you feel, Chan.”

“Because you understand relationships now?”

Jihoon tsks. There’s a ballerina dancing on his lungs, a constant whenever he thinks about it. About Jisoo. When it snows, when he listens to SHINee’s _Your Name_ , when he sees the sun or looks at the moon. A ballerina that never stops dancing — he thinks she must be very, very tired by now. Feels the ache of her muscles as if it was his own.

“I have a job to finish, sorry.” That’s not an excuse and his insides churn because he knows that, but it’s the truth, anyways. He has a job to finish.

The man is sitting on top of a stool in the middle of the room, delicate, all soft sweaters and peachy eye makeup, the epitome of autumn. Jihoon looks at him through the lenses — the agonizing piercings on his ears, the painful rising of his cheekbones, the excruciating shape of his lips — and wonders about how, in the grand scheme of things, Jisoo became the person his focus always ends up on. 

He clicks one time, two. Presses the shutter button way more times than necessary.

(There’s this: soft skin at his fingertips, a kiss to his eyelids, the smell of citrus. There’s home inside someone else’s heart, the valley of their ribs. 

Mornings when he dips tea packs into hot water as he waits for his coffee to brew, because he’s learning to be kind, little by little, and there’s life outside his apartment but there is life inside of it, too.

“Can you let me take a picture of you?” Jisoo asks. He’s wearing one of Jihoon’s baggy shirts and black sweatpants, no makeup on, smile a gift. “I know you’re probably not going to agree with me, but you look the prettiest right now. I love you like this.”

“I just woke up, Jisoo.”

“And I love you.”

“I said I just woke up.”

“I don’t think those are mutually exclusive.”)


End file.
